Tripp

by Kristen Kehoe

  She’s strong and that’s why I love her. She’s also a giant pain in my ass right now. And my heart. Goddammit. I press my hand to my chest and try to ease the pressure that way.

  “She okay?”

  It’s Griff. I nod without looking at him.

  “You okay?”

  I don’t nod this time, just stand with my back to them and my hands over my head while I stare down the street. Here’s where we get stuck—she doesn’t want to need me, and I can’t move forward until she understands I need her to depend on me… and to trust me to be there.

  I don’t say any of this to Tanner and Griff, mostly because it makes me feel like an idiot. I’m pining after a girl who’s made it abundantly clear—however much she loves me, she doesn’t need me…not like I need her. They seem to get it anyway. After a second, they’re both next to me, flanking me on either side as we stare straight ahead.

  “Women, never satisfied,” Tanner says and it brings a small smile to my lips.

  Griff grunts. “Maybe not when you’re done with them. Do you speed through everything in life, Tanner? Because that’s not how the bedroom’s supposed to work.”

  I laugh despite the gnawing ache inside of me and I shove Tanner away when he lunges across me halfheartedly for Griff. Then I scrub my hands over my face. “Christ, I thought we were past this. I thought she trusted me enough to let me help.”

  They settle down and say nothing for a second. “Maybe it’s not that she doesn’t trust you,” Tanner says and I look at him. “Maybe it’s that she doesn’t want to.”

  “But why? Lauren?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe because she knows that who she is, or rather, what she is…is a lot to take on. No matter how easy it is for people to say they’re ready for it, it’s just as easy for them to change their mind. Maybe she’s protecting herself, so if you do that, she’s already prepared.”

  Rage isn’t something that’s unfamiliar to me. I’ve thrown as many punches as I’ve taken in my life, but Tanner’s words bring the red-hot spurt of anger so quickly, my hands are shaking and clenched before I even register what’s coursing through me.

  I slam my palms into his shoulders, getting up in his face so fast both of us are surprised. We might be the same size, but I’m the youngest—very rarely do I initiate the fight.

  “When I said I was ready for her, I meant it. Goddammit, I’m not some useless piece who’s afraid of hard work. I’m not Marcus Kash or any other bastard who would do that. I love her.”

  I feel Griff’s arm around my chest, but he’s quiet and calm just like Tanner as he stares straight into my eyes. My anger starts to fizzle when I see the approval in his, and the understanding. “We know that, Jackson, but maybe your girl still needs some time to come to terms with it.”

  I want to slam my fist into the wall—or Tanner’s face, just because—but we hear Mom’s voice. We all head back in through the side door, knowing if she catches us standing around having a pissing match while the shop’s full of cars and customers she’ll give us an earful—or worse, ask us what’s wrong. When I’m on the creeper and under the Jeep again, I wonder about Tanner’s words and just how much truth they hold.

  28

  Past

  I’m halfway through my new Madden game in the den when I hear a knock on the door. Both Tanner and Griff are in high school and always on dates. I know it isn’t for either of them. I’m getting ready to yell for my mom and see if she’ll get the door—something that’s as likely to get me a boot in the ass as it is to get me what I want—when I remember she and my dad are out for the night.

  Crap.

  I throw one last pass to my receiver and groan when he drops it. Someone knocks on the door again. “Hang on!” I shout and grab my beeping phone on the way. I see the messages are from Rachel, but before I text her back, I hear her on the other side of the door.

  “Tripp, I know you’re in there because I know you’re still grounded for failing our math test. Open the damn door.”

  I roll my eyes, partly for her and partly because I can’t believe my parents grounded me for one bad grade on my math test. I’m a seventh grader and I’m going to the NBA when I grow up. Who needs Algebra?

  “You could have let me cheat off you,” I say as I rip open the door.

  I stop because I see her wearing her OSU Women’s Volleyball shirt with her Chucks and her jeans. I remember she was supposed to be at a game tonight because it’s her birthday. Which means…

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” she says as she shoulders by me.

  Yeaaa, that’s a lie, but I know better than to call her on it right away. Instead, we head back into the den and sprawl on opposite sides of the couch, facing the television. I hand her the second controller and restart my game, stealing small glances as she picks her team—the Bengals, lame. We start and she’s losing handily by the end of the first quarter, and not just because she chose one of the worst teams in the league like she always does (something about loyalty and their roster of former OSU players, but seriously, they suck), but because she’s barely paying attention as she slams the buttons on her controller.

  “So, you didn’t go to the game?”

  “Obviously.”

  Rachel’s not really a talker. When she’s mad, one-word answers are about all I’m going to get, so usually I let it be. I mean, I’m a guy. Silence is kind of something I understand, but the longer we play—the harder she stabs the controller, and the more glances I steal.

  She was supposed to go to the game with her dad tonight for her birthday. Since it started an hour ago and she’s here stabbing at my controller like it’s the Devil and must be killed now—I’m going out on a limb and guessing he no-showed on her…which isn’t unheard of. Rachel constantly says she doesn’t care, but I know she does. Every time he does this, she comes over and sits in silence for a few hours. Usually, I can joke her out of it, but tonight I know that something’s different.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask, knowing full well I’m taking my life in my hands as she could decide I’m a handy target to take her anger out on. I’m no sissy, but Rachel’s almost as tall as I am, and she hits harder than any guy our age, and she doesn’t always need a reason.

  “Nope.”

  Girls. People say boys are complicated? Please, you don’t see me showing up at her door angry and then refusing to talk about it while I take my anger out on her controller, do you?

  I hit pause and she yells at me, gesturing with her hands. “Oh settle down, Carson Palmer, you weren’t going to complete that pass anyway.” She flips me off and I want to laugh. “Let’s try using our words, hmm? Tell me what’s wrong, Rachel.”

  “Jesus, you sound like Stacy. Nothing’s wrong.”

  I want to wince when she compares me to her older sister, mostly because Stacy is a neurotic pain-in-the-ass we’ve both mocked more than once for being uptight. Instead, I sit and wait, using Rachel’s own stare-tactic against her. Sure enough, it only takes ten seconds, which is a record, so I know something’s wrong. She usually beats me in the silent-stare game; instead, she throws her controller on the couch and starts talking.

  “Fine. You already know anyway, so I don’t know what the hell you want me to say.”

  “How about why you’re here?”

  Her face is all kinds of hurt for a second before she throws on a scowl and goes to stand. “You want me to leave? No problem.”

  I grab her arm and pull her back down to the couch, silently praying not to become an abused piece of meat as I try to do the right thing. “Don’t leave. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Sure as shit sounded like it.”

  Again, girls. Deep breath in, deep breath out—now try again. “I meant to say why are you here instead of the game? What happened with your dad?” She sits in stony silence staring at me. I want to laugh as much as I want to say “To hell with it,” and go back to my game. With anyone else,
I probably wouldn’t have started this conversation, but with Rachel…I don’t know, it’s like I know if she doesn’t at least tell me, she won’t ever tell anyone. And I kinda think she needs to. Not that I’ll say that to her. “Come on, Rachel, tell me what happened.”

  She stares at me for another few seconds before shrugging my hands off her arm and sighing. “He called a month ago…asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday…talked all about how he wanted to be the one to take me out since my mom’s at a big nature-dinner something-or-other tonight. I told him I wanted to go to the game. He said perfect. I ordered the tickets off StubHub, and texted him the time and everything. All he had to do was show up,” she says. This time, her voice is low. I look over from where I’d been staring at the ground and see her cheeks are wet—barely, but there’s a definite line of moisture running down her face. I stop because holy shit, Rachel’s crying.

  Rachel never cries. Ever.

  My palms are damp and my throat feels dry. My heart is slamming into my ribs. I can’t find any words, because I’m staring at my best friend—the girl who’s put her fist in my face more than any other person in my life—and she’s crying. More painful than seeing her cry…is watching her try to hold the tears in, like she can’t stand to let even one of them go for him.

  “Why can’t he just show up, Tripp? He didn’t even call. I texted him earlier to make sure we were still on, and he didn’t respond. Like a fucking idiot, I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything. I still got ready, still pretended he was coming to get me…even as I sat there for an hour after he was supposed to have picked me up…even after I called and texted him four times without a response.” She wipes at her cheeks only to have two more tears fall from her eyes.

  My hand reaches out before I even know what’s going on, catching one of those tears. She stops sniffling long enough to look at me and, for a second, I’m not breathing, only staring at Rachel with her big, wet eyes and her tear on my fingertip. I want to hug her, to tell her what a douche her dad is, and that she shouldn’t cry over him…but I don’t, because I can’t speak. All I can do is stare at her.

  She breaks contact first, swiping furiously at her tears with the back of her hand. “Crap. This is embarrassing. Crying is so girly.”

  This breaks through my mute-fog and I laugh, rubbing my fingers together until the moisture from that tear dries up. “I think it’s okay for you to do something girly, considering you are a girl.”

  “So you do notice.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Thanks for letting me get that out. You tell anyone, and I’ll deny it before I beat your ass.”

  “So tough,” I say and wait for her to pick up her controller before hitting START again. As predicted, her quarterback fails to make the completion even though I was barely pressuring.

  “Moron,” she says. I smile because she’s no longer beating her controller into submission.

  We play until I beat her, and then we start another game—with the same teams, because she refuses to accept defeat as always. Halfway through, I can’t help but look over at her again, though I do it out of the corner of my eye so she doesn’t catch me and berate me for it. Her tears are gone—thank Jesus—and she seems happier, but I can still tell there’s something off, something that’s weighing on her.

  I’ve only met Rachel’s dad a few times. He hasn’t ever really been around. He moved out when she was just a baby, and since then, he’s been absent a lot of her life. I know she pretends not to need him, but every time he makes her a promise he doesn’t keep, she hurts. Regardless of how much of a sissy it makes me, I feel that hurt deep inside, every time. Not that I’ll tell her—she dislikes pity almost as much as she dislikes crying; I’d be sure to get a fist in the face for my troubles.

  I pause the game again. She yells, but I ignore her and run into my room, grabbing the package I had my mom wrap last week. I walk back out and throw it at her like it’s no big deal, heading into the kitchen to grab us some chips and water.

  When I’m sure she’s had time to open it, I head back into the den. She’s holding the signed Women’s-US-volleyball jersey I found on EBay, staring at it. After I sit, she turns her gaze to me. I want to glance away, but I can’t because looking at those eyes has something rolling in my chest—something big and uncomfortable that’s stealing my air. I feel like I did the last time she punched me in the stomach for hurting Katie’s feelings.

  “Happy birthday,” I say and switch back to focusing on the television, the feeling subsiding slightly now that I’m not trapped in those gray eyes.

  In my peripheral, I see her nod. “Thank you.”

  “Hey Rachel?” I ask after we’ve started playing again.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  She’s quiet for a minute, throwing a pass and actually completing a play. “Me too,” she finally says, and I get it. Then she adds, “Thanks for being here for my birthday, Tripp.”

  “Always.” And I mean it.

  29

  Present

  Despite the urge, I don’t chase after Rachel. As much as I resent it, what Tanner said was right. Rachel doesn’t trust me to help her—to be with her when it’s more complicated than laughing and messing around. She doesn’t think I should want to be a part of Gracie’s life, so she won’t let me.

  As much as I try to understand why she thinks this, to be calm and levelheaded when I do talk to her, I can’t. I can’t pretend it’s okay that she doesn’t trust me. I can’t pretend it’s okay she won’t lean on me. I’m not her dad; I’m not going to sit by and let her live her life while I only get to be a part of it sometimes. I want it all—the good and the bad—and I’m ready to fight her for it.

  Still, I wait. I stay at work past my shift, making an inventoried list of the Jeep that interrupted Rachel and me earlier—noting down all the changes the guy is going to have to make if he has any hope of putting a lift on and actually keeping the car together at the same time. I help Griff close and clean up; Tanner is already long gone to shower and change for his shift at the bar he works at on campus. My brother doesn’t speak until we’re done, and then all he does is say “Video games?”

  I nod, walking to the sink to scrub my hands. “No plans tonight?”

  He shrugs and joins me, scrubbing the dirt from his as well. “Not until later. My roommate and his girlfriend are home, and as much as I think she’s cool, I can’t really stand to be alone in the house with them for too long.”

  His statement has me thinking about my own girlfriend and how pissed I am at her, but I laugh. “No romantic streak in you, big brother?”

  “There’s romance…and then there’s these two. They never use real names—ever. Everything is baby and sweetie and babe. I’m not even sure I know her real name, now that I think about it.”

  “Well, G Money, it just so happens I’m free this evening. Madden and mom’s cooking?”

  “Deal.” Before I can turn around to go, Griff says my name again. “Hey, Tripp? For what it’s worth, I think she really loves you.”

  I nod before walking away. I know what Griff is saying is true. Rachel is tough and she’s cold sometimes, but she’s not a liar. She wouldn’t have told me she loved me if she didn’t. There’s a part of me that wonders if she’s giving me all she’s capable of—and if I can live with it if it turns out she can’t ever give me more.

  ~

  Griff stayed until ten and then made his way home, leaving me eight hours to stew and think. I never called or texted Rachel. However much I disagreed with her decision to shut me out and take care of Gracie on her own—I respected it.

  That’s possibly the hardest thing about loving her like this. I can’t fault her for wanting to be strong and independent and in charge of her daughter on her own.

  “Sure you can,” my mom tells me as I sit in the kitchen just after five, finally giving up on my attempt to sleep. “Tripp, if you’re as serious about this
relationship with her as you seem, then you need to talk to her. Talk,” she says with great emphasis. I figure she’s referring to how Rachel and I prefer to yell when we’re trying to make a point.

  “What if she tells me she’s never going to change?”

  I hate that I have to ask—hate that I’m insecure enough, weak enough, to need reassurance from my mom. It’s like I’m ten instead of eighteen. Mom shrugs. “Then you ask yourself if you can live with it, and if you can, you go on like this. If you can’t, then you walk away.”

  The thought of walking away from Rachel makes me hurt everywhere, but when I think of sitting on the sidelines every time something big happens, waiting for her to call and tell me when she’s ready to see me, I don’t feel much better.

  I feel an arm around my shoulders and look up at my mom, smiling a little when she stands on her tiptoes to give me a hug while I’m in my seated position on the stool. “Go get dressed. We’ll go grab some coffee and head over there. Leigh called me last night and asked if I would be able to stay with Rachel and Gracie this morning while she was at a meeting with her grad school kids.”

  “Does Rachel know Dr. C called you to babysit her?”

  “Probably not, but she doesn’t need permission to look out for her daughter, and neither do I.”

  “It’s your skin,” I mutter as I stand.

  “Just for that, you’re buying coffee.”

  I do buy the coffee, getting Rachel her regular latte, no flavor added—even though I have no idea if she’ll even be awake. We knock lightly on the door and Dr. C opens pretty quickly, her hair in a thick braid over her shoulder, her long lean frame covered with black sweats and a hoodie—I stare, surprised at how strong her resemblance is to her youngest daughter. Rachel’s a little darker in her complexion and her hair, and her eyes are a different color, but something about the way Dr. C stands…as if she’s not afraid of anything…reminds me of Rachel.

  “Leigh, we brought provisions.”